


Toska

by janvandyne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7033975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janvandyne/pseuds/janvandyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re willful and headstrong, but you’re the best. And that’s why he’s here – to both train you in combat and give you a lesson in humility. As next in line to become the Black Widow, it’s your duty to surrender your allegiance and autonomy to the Red Room with unflinching devotion.</p><p>You’ve got a problem with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toska

  
_You have played,_  
_(I think)_  
_And broke the toys you were fondest of,_  
_And are a little tired now;_  
_Tired of things that break, and—_  
_Just tired._  
_So am I._  
\- ee cummings -

 

The moment of impact isn’t the worst part. It isn’t even really significant considering what follows. It’s that first attempt at inhalation after your chest cavity collapses – that’s what you feel. It’s a paralyzing kind of pain. A sharp, shooting spasm from throat to diaphragm. You’re flat on your back and you can’t move, the impact of hitting the ground immobilizing your whole body.

 

It’s a worthless effort, but your natural instinct is to try to fill your empty lungs. When you can’t do that, panic starts to set in. It’s a reasonable response. You know the pain will subside soon. You know you’ll be able to breathe again. But when your diaphragm is spasming and your vision is spotting, little stars creeping out from the corners of your eyes, it’s hard not to be alarmed.

 

Eventually you’re able look up, and amidst the stars on the outskirts your sight, you see him standing over you, stoic and unsympathetic to your suffering. You’re starting to calm, but you can’t find the will to get up just yet. Instead, you hold his gaze, suddenly aware that you can finally breathe again.

 

“They told me you were the best,” he says, a dark silhouette eclipsing the sun behind him. “They lied.”

 

“I am.” There’s still a dull burn in your chest when you try to speak, but you inhale again and start over. “I am the best.”

 

He scoffs and steps back, giving you the space to roll over onto your hands and knees. You know you’re risking an attack, but the sun once again pouring onto your beaten body is soothing, so you stay that way for a moment. You take a few more experimental breaths, watching as the frozen mist forms in front of you. Then, despite the ache coursing through you, you push yourself onto your feet to face the man.

 

You’re aware that he’s been tracking all of your movements, never taking his eyes off of you. That’s what unnerves you the most – his bottomless gaze. His bitter cold winter blue eyes. You’d think that they were the source of the premature chill in the air. Not even the sun, so comforting to you in its own warmth, could thaw those blocks of ice. But there was something else, something that seemed to be locked away and buried deep. Something that he didn’t even know was there himself.

 

You’re shaken out of your thoughts when he begins to speak again. “I haven’t been here a day,” he says, “and I’ve nearly broken you.”

 

His words ignite a fire in you more excruciating than all the physical damage he’s inflicted upon you. Contempt smoldered behind your battered façade. You ignored your beaten ribs, your bleeding wounds, the lacerations, the contusions. All of your attention was focused on this man now, your new _instruktor_ , who was audacious enough to assume that he could do anything close to break you. 

 

He holds his ground as you stalk towards him, slow and calculating. You notice that the closer you get to him, the more you have to draw your eyes up to hold his gaze; the bigger he becomes, like a shadow spreading to fill all the space around you. You’re not afraid, though. You’re too furious to be afraid. You continue your slow pursuit towards the man. 

 

“You are a novelty,” you growl, voice low and thick with indignation. “A trinket. A toy given to me to play with because I have ruined all of my others.”

 

Your anger is making you bold, and when you stop, you are so close to him that you can feel the heat coming off of his body. He stares down at you, and you are almost pleased with yourself when you see a slight spark of emotion in his eyes.

 

“ _Vy nikogda ne lomay menya._ ” You say to him, softer than before, but no less dangerous. You will never break me.”

You brace yourself for the attack this time. He pushes you back just far enough so that he can throw a punch. You stumble back, but plant your feet in time to duck under his fist and deliver a blow to the underside of his forearm. You strike his stomach with your other fist. He swings again and you duck again, this time moving behind him. You throw your elbow back and hit him in the ribs.

 

Your training has emphasized grace, agility, and speed. His technique is blunt, brutal force. You try to compensate for his superior strength by not allowing him to land a hit. You dodge and evade his swings while still landing blows of your own. But that only lasts so long.

 

He kicks you in the stomach with his heavy boot with enough force behind it to send you flying back. You land with a shocking jolt. He comes at you, stomping the space where your head should have been as you roll to avoid his assault. You swing your legs to wrap around his knees, scissoring them with your calves to bring him down to the ground with you.

 

Before he can even make impact, you’re on him. You straddle his chest, locking his shoulders down between your knees. You strike him with your right fist, then your left, creating a gash in his cheek. You come down with your right again, but as you make contact, you feel hands grabbing the underside of your thighs and you’re thrown forward.  
You roll and recover quickly, getting to your feet and returning to the man as he’s rising to his knees. You take handfuls of his hair in both your fists and bring your knee up to his nose once, twice, then on the third attempt, he grabs your knees and pulls. The motion sends you to your back once again, and he lunges on top of you. 

 

Your wrists end up above your head in one of his unyielding hands, and you know that the fight is over. Try as you may, your speed is yet to match his strength. When he comes down with his other fist, you prepare yourself for the pain, the broken bones, the possibility of permanent disfigurement. Instead he punches the cold ground beside your head, hard enough that you feel the impact reverberate through your body. He does it again and again, and you wince every time. 

 

When you open your eyes, he’s staring down at you. You find yourself held captive by his eyes again, the bitter blue piercing something deep inside of you. You flinch when a drop of blood from his cheek falls and hits yours, breaking whatever hold he had on you. Your chest is still heaving, though. And you don’t know how it will be able to contain both your lungs and your pounding heart.

 

“You’re improving already,” he finally says, releasing your wrist and dismounting you. You rub at the tender skin he was holding, already bruising from his metal hand. 

 

“I don’t need improvement,” you tell him. 

 

“I could have killed you ten times over.”

 

“Yeah, but you’re an anomaly,” you say, standing. 

 

He scoffs. “I go from being a toy to an anomaly?”

 

You can feel your face warm at him words. It had been the truth when you said it. You’ve broken everyone they sent to train you. Ruined them. Sent them off ashamed that a girl had gotten the better of them. You figure that this man would be considerably harder to destroy.

 

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” you say to him. It’s the honest truth. And it’s not just his inhuman strength, his incredible skill. There’s something deeper and complex about him that you want to understand, even if you have to slowly dismantle him from the outside in to get to it.

 

“Who are you?” you ask. 

 

“Your teacher,” is his simple reply.

 

“Ok, what are you?”

 

“Your teacher,” he says again.

 

You take in his emotionless countenance, his prosthetic arm. You remember that flash of life before the fight. You want that again.

 

“Were you a man?” you ask, half mockingly, half genuinely curious about his answer. Your hook seems to catch him.

 

“I’m still a man,” he says, but he’s not looking at you. He’s busying himself with a bag, and it seems a deliberate attempt to not engage with the question.

 

“No, you’re more,” you respond. You cock your head, letting your eyes wander over his full figure, considering him. “Or less. I haven’t decided yet.”

 

“I’d take a look in the mirror before you start trying to provoke me again,” he says, his voice a deep rumble.

 

It jumpstarts your heart again, spiking your adrenaline. You run your tongue over your busted lip. It hadn’t stopped leaking from earlier, and you know you’ll be spitting blood for the rest of the day.

 

“That wouldn’t stop me,” you say, almost smiling

 

“I don’t doubt it.”

 

You smile even more. “Can you at least tell me your name?”

 

“Enough questions.” He retrieves some items out of his bag and tosses them at your feet. 

 

You bend down to pick them up. They’re knives, big ones, still in their sheathes. When you stand upright, he’s walking away. “Where are you from?” you call out to him.

 

“We’re done for the day,” he says, not even looking back.

 

“I’ll just ask again tomorrow.”

 

“And you’ll get the same answers.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please comment and tell me what you think!


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